Sheers

2023 - Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. Note: All players in 'Sheers' are over the age of eighteen

>>>>>>>>>>>"Between the idea and the reality...falls the shadow."

T.S. Eliot - The Hollow Men

*

"You need to decide—black or white?"

**

Women know things. Athena Ivanov does. She knows, for instance, that the more she knows, the more complex things become.

Her relationship with the man reclining on the couch behind her is a case in point. A study in madness, she obsesses over him. Nodding to herself in the mirror, and as if carrying on with someone other than herself, she silently insists it is what it is; she cannot un-know what she knows.

Despite herself, Athena wants to know more—and more after that. She wonders, how much more is too much more?

The reclining man is Messiah Blane. Messiah is a murderer. Knowing it is unimportant since, curiously, Athena likes knowing. Conceding the paradox and acknowledging the obvious, she nods to herself a second time, her thought, that relationships are perplexing.

Applying her makeup, she accepts that there is both good murder and bad. Some say they are the same, but they are not the same. Good murder happens to men who hurt women. Three men attacked Athena. They are properly dead. Messiah killed them; he is a good murderer.

Perhaps the reader finds it strange that the striking, thirtyish woman can be in love with such a man, stranger still that she is not afraid to be. He is unusually balanced—and aggressive; his measured disposition entices her, even as his natural passivity reinforces her safety. Messiah captivates Athena; in his presence, she is fearless.

It is afternoon, Saturday, and taking her time, the wary woman readies herself for tonight. Pausing her makeup routine and only half celebrating her recent harsh cut jet-black hair, Athena spikes the silence, intruding with a question she has asked twice in under three minutes. "The sheers, Messiah; are you even listening?"

"What about them," he asks, finally paying attention.

"You need to decide—black or white?"

"Black," he insists.

His answer is distant, his tenor ambivalent. She stares into the mirror, whose frame frames both her face and the back of Messiah's head. Her reflection, like his reply, is uncertain. It does not take a position on his terse response.

Athena finds Messiah's choice of black sheers peculiar; she was sure he would say white. Only yesterday, as they wandered the aisles at Darkest Fox Lingerie, she, like a child shopping with her father, held things up for his approval. The white, bridal, thigh-high sheers had drawn his attention—and blessing. Seeing them, and despite the chronic tedium males bring to all non-hardware store shopping, his face brightened; it is not surprising that now, in answer to her query, she guessed he would select white—she guessed wrong.

Something about the tone of the near-wordless exchange unsettles her. It is off-kilter; his tepid retort makes her nervous.

Through their brief time together, Athena has found the mysterious man unpredictable. She half-overlooks his unforeseen pick, attributing it to an off-the-cuff change of mind, a reaction to an only half-paid-attention-to probe.

Does any of this make sense? To men, it does not. To women, it makes perfect sense.

•

Part 2 "...he'll beat you even harder than usual."

**

Messiah sees other women—Athena knows. He does not know that she knows.

Yesterday, she bumped into one of them, the annoying Grega Guhr. "He's gentle," she said, pointing out what we both knew. Sporting a wry smile and pretending to be faintly rushed, she added, "He likes roughing a girl up, so don't play tricks on him. Messiah hates tricks. Do what he says or—well, maybe we shouldn't go there."

Turning away, Grega blabbed even more and, with a cynical air, sneeringly added, "You won't like him when he's mad—he'll beat you even harder than usual."

Athena initially brushed the issue aside, crediting the heads-up to Grega's famous jealousy. Instead, she mulled her immediate concern. Should she be with someone who insists she plays the starring role in a gangbang?'

Inspecting Grega's sinfully curvaceous butt as she disappeared into Eataly's swarming Fifth Avenue entrance, Athena not only glared; she smartly took stock of the mean girl's menacing honesty. It was a reminder of Messiah's darker passions, especially given his recent insistence that she does the unthinkable. Athena hates Grega. She hates Grega's intimate connection to Messiah, that he beats her too. She concedes that beatings, unthinkable things, are only unthinkable at first; with time, they turn thinkable.

Athena is torn over Messiah's party demand. Facing an internal tug-of-war, she dithers over how a woman's self-empowerment butts against a man's resolve.

Empowerment is freedom—to submit—to whomever she pleases! Athena is free; she selected Messiah, yet cannot fathom what is behind his peculiar wants. Questions stalk her. Why did she say yes to the gangbang?

She is open with him and senses he knows more about her than he discloses. Twice, Athena has taken part in groups. Does he suspect? Each instance involved rich men. Rich men have rich friends—Messiah is rich.

Twice, Athena turned party girl. Twice, she knelt, licked, and sucked. For affection, she smiled, pretending being peed on was a girl's best friend. With that as a backdrop and thinking she is on to better things, she wants out of tonight's unholy revelry.

She returns to the moment. Keeping the line of her eyeliner slender yet expressive, she applies, hesitates, shakes her head, 'no,' and wonders at her chronic foolishness. When does it end? When do whores become partners, lovers, wives—her mind freezes at the thought of the W-Word, that it will jinx her from ever landing the most coveted of all things, a husband.

Messiah is everything, brilliant, handsome, audacious—unfeeling. He pretends this evening's circus performance for a bawdy crowd with zero appeal is not repellent. Men frighten her. They watch; tonight, he will watch. What will he think? Notwithstanding that terrifying question, she is trapped and has to go through with it—she promised.

Moments before, when Athena asked her 'sheers' question, he was preoccupied. She excused him, rendering fathomable the blankness of his answer.

The ballgame is on. He is engrossed in the unending, slow-motion brawl's creeping battle of boredom. Determined to absorb everything about him, she forces herself to be interested in baseball—kind of. Aaron Judge, that cutie of a home runner, is at bat. Baseball makes men forget women. Athena hates baseball.

She sits quietly at her vanity, the back of Messiah's head, and the game, the only notable features in her mirror's haunting viewfinder. Now and again, she half-glances his way, even as she carefully puts the finishing touches on a reluctant face.

When she asked her question, he answered without turning to her. "What about the garter belt?" she presses.

"What about it?" he replies. She is exasperated that he answers questions with questions.

"Which color does my true love prefer?"

A typically oblivious male, Messiah's reply draws a smile from the irked woman. "What are my options, doll." Yet again offered without turning to her, his comeback means he is far removed, not only now, but also from yesterday's calculated shopping spree.

Foolishly, and as if he has eyes in the back of his head, she holds up twin belts. Each has identical floral lace patterns. Black and white, they are otherwise indistinguishable.

Messiah cannot see the limply held display. Bluntly, she asks an even more provocative question. "Should your whore wear black or white?"

She grows more troubled. The matter of the belts is trivial. Her attention has already shifted to tonight's recital. Athena wants to scream—she dares not. It is the fault of that damned promise and her nervousness surrounding Grega's unsolicited advice. She faces a dilemma: Last week, Messiah announced, "I'll need you with me on Saturday."

Put to her as a directive, she scarcely grasped its outrageousness. In a moment of weakness and with his cock lodged deeply, she said yes.

He did that, demanded assurances when he was in her. Her answer amounted to steroid-level foolhardiness, resulting from a mind running in circles. 'Next Saturday' seemed far off, but as the days receded, her fears grew. To no avail, she hinted at misgivings. By Friday, hints gave way to pleadings. "Messiah, maybe this isn't good for us. Maybe seeing me covered in other men's sperm will ruin our love. What if you can't unsee it?"

"You already said yes." His tone was inflexible.

Angrily, she snapped at him. "I was tipsy—OK? Let's be honest, Messiah, I was fucking drunk! I was four martinis into the night. You stretched me till I hurt, and I...I didn't have all my marbles!"

Unmoved, he countered, "If you were that drunk, how do you remember the number of martinis? I'm going to the party with or without you; an agreement is an agreement."

His voice, resolute, chilled her. Later, she screeched to herself, 'HE SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WOMEN! MEN NEED TO HIT THE BRAKES FOR US, TO LEAD!"

Athena wanted to stand her ground but remembered her exchange with Grega, the wicked witch of Midtown. Backing out meant he would default to another lover—a slut. Grega did the party—twice. To her, the impending group scene is just another group scene where she, a detested rival, will too gladly play understudy. Athena is stuck.

The time for second thoughts is past. Now, amid depressing buyer's remorse and big-time reluctance, Athena worries the gangbang will do what such things do: upset her relationship.

*

Part 3

"She gasped as he too expertly pulled his wrist from deep inside her aching cunt."

**

Women gamble. They play the sex card when the right moment presents itself, meaning the right man.

Too commonly, they commit too early and overplay their hand. Recalling their first passion, Athena that she overplayed hers. She regrets her smorgasbord of erotic offerings. It was too much too soon. It was unwise to move directly to the clawing-at-each-other phase while skipping the dancing, candlelight dinner, hold hands phase.

Adding to her doubts, she remembers the middle-of-the-night ring of his insolent phone. Having rudely interrupted their lust, his tone with the mysterious caller unsettled her. He was overly assuring and businesslike. "I understand; I'm on my way—be with you shortly."

You? Who is 'you'? Why does 'you' call at four a.m.? What if 'you' is a woman? Is 'you,' Grega, a handy ruse to soothe his exit?

Athena said nothing. Instead, she looked down the length of her naked, exhausted form, sealed her teary eyes, and grudgingly lifted her hips high for him. She gasped as he too expertly withdrew his wrist from deep inside her aching cunt.

After he left, she slept in flickers. The next day, no calls, no texts—nothing. Days passed before he resurfaced, declaring, "There's a party Saturday in Brooklyn, a group scene."

She said yes—she should not have.

*

Part 4

In a 'moth-to-a-flame moment,' Athena is half-repulsed and half-drawn by the sex party idea.

**

"Messiah," she continued, "what about the garter belt; I need you to decide, white or black?"

"White," he tersely answered.

Athena's irritation surges—white, of course. He loves white—skirts, bras, blouses—white—white. Still, she insists he chooses. Men think they want options—they do not; they prefer to make women relentlessly play out their boyhood fantasies.

It is nearing six. Her apartment is in Midtown. They are due in Brooklyn at seven. His friends are already there. In a singularly oddball way, Athena is half-repulsed and half-drawn by the sex party idea.

Every woman imagines a one-time thing; she fantasizes about servicing a crowd. To protect their relationships, most shy away. Is she in a relationship?

Athena imagines a room full of muscled body heat. Aquarium-like, the men brim with the pungent perfume of testosterone, beer, and marijuana.

She shudders over their nightmarishly appealing smell and makes up her mind. She will kneel for eight—no more. She obsesses over sweat, anticipation, faux bravado, leering, laughing, the dread of the women—even the men, with the last, alert to the size of their erections—too big, too small, just right, all as the women avert their eyes in humiliation.

Must she be the feature presentation of such outrageousness? A silent scream shrieks, 'don't!'

To men, details are women's work. Messiah pays little attention to them. He sees life's landscapes, Athena, its pixels. He does not detect her growing tepidness, or worse, disregards it. He needs to listen!

Athena imagines the men. She knows how it works. It is a couples-only affair. Women are expected to satisfy each man. Each man will coolly insist on tasting each woman. Men sample women; it is what they do.

Just then, a thought leaves her wide-eyed. Athena asks herself, what if the other men do not bring women? What if Messiah is luring her, that she is the only female? Will he love her more or less?

Like dogs, men misbehave in packs. Will Messiah misbehave? Will he sample the other women? How many? In a classic Hillary moment, she thinks, 'what difference, at this point, does it make?' Of one thing, Athena is sure: if he tastes more than her, like Hillary, she will play the role of pissed-off bitch forever!

Interrupting her ragged thoughts, she whispers, "Messiah, tell me again. How many couples?"

"Six," he matter-of-factly murmurs.

"I thought you said eight?"

"Eight then," he allows, yet again not bothering to shift his attention from the ballgame.

He is humoring her. She hates it when he humors her. Men do that; they humor. She wants to snatch the remote, to press the 'off ' button! She needs his attention! She wants to shout, 'if you fuck other girls, you might not get hard for me again. You won't want me!'

The broadcaster breaks the tension, announcing, "And now it's Anthony Rizzo at the plate! Rizzo, hitting two-twenty-two, grounded out in the first and reached for a double in the fourth."

Athena does not care about Anthony Rizzo! She does not care who is at the plate. She cares nothing about his silly batting average! What is it with guys and games?

Athena stood, straightened her stockings, and fastened the final clasp of her garter belt. Carefully, she slipped into her black, full-length, girl-in-a-mirror maxi dress. Classy, it is suitably removable. Announcing, "Tadaaaa!" She looked to him for approval.

This time he turned his head. "You're dazzling," he said. Smiling satanically, he added, "All that prettiness handily strips off, right?"

As he glanced back at the screen for a final double-check of the score, she whispered, "Right, sure."

It has taken Athena two hours to get ready. He expects her to get naked in two minutes!

She frowned, her mind returning to tonight's festivities. She sees herself on her knees. Surrounded by nakedness, the men squeeze her in places she does not permit anyone except Messiah to squeeze. To make themselves look bigger, they jerk their glistening cocks. Can this be what he wants?

What will he think when unwanted hands roam her breasts and hair, finger her womanhood, a private place reserved for him? She wonders—and half-prays, he will stay the way he is, detached and uninvolved. She decides not to complain if he stays back and watches.

Athena does not know his friends; she knows about them. Brody, a surgeon, and Mike, a city hall, something or other, sound nice. Then again, if they are nice, why do they share their ladies at sex parties? And what if their women are not girlfriends? What if they are working girls, escorts, like her? What if she recognizes them—from work! The thought mortifies her.

The other men are just names. They mean nothing to her. What if they turn her off? What if they have long scruffy beards like mountain men? She hates long scruffy beards. And what about their cocks? Are they even circumcised? Messiah is circumcised. She adores his cock, its length, its power —its cum! If they are uncircumcised, she will be turned off.

One of his buds is a biker, a 'Pagan' gang member out of Brooklyn. He will bring Veena, his tag-along bitch. Athena knows about her; she is a slut. Messiah says they are troupers at this kind of thing; they share their sexuality with others. How can true lovers share? What kind of girl is Veena that she says yes? Veena is creepy.

It is time to go. Athena adjusts her sheers. She slips reluctant feet into the black ankle-strap heels resting under her chair.

"I like the shoes," Messiah ventures, suddenly giving her a second look. "They're hot."

Accepting the compliment, Athena reaches down, snugs the straps, and redirects the subject to fit her agenda. Sharply, she asks, "Messiah, do you prefer I leave on my heels and sheers when your friends fuck me?"

Taking a quiet moment, he ponders his options—of which there are two. She can almost hear his creaky masculine wheels turning. "Tell me," she insists.

"What's the big deal?" he asks. "Can't we wait to see how it goes? Maybe the other women will keep theirs on?"

Though slim, it is an empowering moment, and standing, Athena rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and parades her self-satisfying conviction. "Messiah, dear, a girl gets to decide beforehand. Panties get worn over garter belts if the belt stays on during sex. Panties go under if the belt comes off—see how that works?"

Men are clueless; his vacant look proves it.

As she slips her arms into her red sequin shrug glitter jacket, she wonders how she can be in love with a man who willfully farms her out to a crew of rowdies.

Athena glances into the mirror again. Doing a slow turn, she gives the finished product the once-over. With a tug and a pull, she twists her wide hips his way. "I'm ready to get laid by your friends, Messiah."

Pointing the remote, he shuts down the game, stands, and walks toward her. Placing strong hands on her shoulders, he whispers, "I like the whole look; it's great."

Taking his chin in her fingers, the willing but apprehensive woman lightly brushes her lips to his. It is a final kiss before casting off into the unknown, an unknown she knows will somehow change everything for her, for them—forever.

End